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<title>(Don't Talk to Me About) Logs on the Fire by Ksanne</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084887">(Don't Talk to Me About) Logs on the Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksanne/pseuds/Ksanne'>Ksanne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Auguste is a Dad, Christmas fic, Lauguste is Domestic, M/M, Pining in Your Own Home, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:16:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>921</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksanne/pseuds/Ksanne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Auguste is happy at the opportunity to host his young son for the holidays while his mother is out of town. But everything good comes at a price, and this time the cost is Laurent's Christmas traditions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Auguste/Laurent (Captive Prince)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(Don't Talk to Me About) Logs on the Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“He's going to get fed up of the noise coming in through that wall if it's anything like last year, and all the years before.” </p><p>“I didn't get a say in who our neighbors are, I didn't get to pick. He's not going to live and sleep in the living room for two weeks, this is the guest bedroom. He'll be happy. We're getting it ready especially for him, look at this.” Laurent pointed attention to the pile of comforters they had collected to enhance the coziness of the small bed, but the more important adjustment in the room was the repurposed television screen and entertainment system that had been set up along the wall. This gesture to teenage tastes came along with gaming platform from a few models back that Laurent had bought out of a moment's curiosity at the time, and gotten bored with before he made it through any game. Digging through storage for tinsel and seasonal cooking utensils was a convenient lead up to finally finding a use for it. </p><p>“It's obnoxious to live in this room, and I'm not going to let it ruin his holiday here.” The neighbor next door was a kind woman and a grandmother, who marked the hosting of her grandchildren with the nonstop ambiance of Christmas classics over the radio. Even on days that the sounds did not pervade their living spaces, the bangs and ding-dongs could always be heard from the spare bedroom. “He's just a kid, I will switch with him, better than my son ending up in the living room anyway, and angry with me.” </p><p>“Do not switch with him. You are overindulgent. This is simple.” Laurent hefted a pillow into Auguste's arms, the padding of the missile allowing him to pass it off with some force. </p><p>He left the room, and Auguste called after him. “If you're worn out, you can step off of the planning. I'm sorry I've always got something to say and a new idea just when we made a decision, but I can handle it. Take a break from me.” </p><p>“I'm not stepping out, you'll end up switching with him without asking me again, I'll end up sharing a bathroom.”</p><p>“You're fine, I'm moving my things and sharing his bathroom.” </p><p>There was quiet between them, and all that Laurent could offer to crack the tension was to roll from the ball of one foot to the ball of the other. “You might as well take the far bedroom.” </p><p>“I think so. He's thirteen, he's really going to hate that music through the wall.” </p><p>“Yes. Wouldn't anyone, after all.” </p><p>Auguste slipped into a relieved toothy smile and his hand went to the door jam, ready to return to his dusting and bed dressing. Strip the sheets again, swap them with his own. </p><p>“As long as you're busy I'm going to start cooking. It's getting late for dinner,” Laurent said. He left Auguste behind, and heard the dusty opening notes of Jingle Bells fade behind him. Auguste could quip that only a grandmother would torment guests with Christmas carols played on loop, but couldn't manage the briefest holiday task without brewing a mug of cheap cider and cracking out old discs to slip into some device 20 years beyond their technology. Laurent had watched him whisper a prayer this year that his childhood favorite could still be read after a skid across the wooden floorboards of their storage room. The joy on Auguste's face had been genuine when the opening track succeeded to crackle through the speakers.</p><p>Some traditions, like these, would survive just fine this Christmas. Laurent's work queue was manageable – he had only retained enough passion projects to keep him lucid during the holidays, and to give him an excuse to bury his head behind his laptop and silence noise from the outside if he ended up needing space from the household. Auguste had a full three weeks out of the office. Being the boss had perks, increasingly with the company's success. </p><p>One week of vacation to prepare the house, two weeks to host Auguste's son while his mother skipped the country. Few of their traditions were going to survive the upheaval entirely. Laurent bitterly snapped a sprig of mistletoe in his imagination, a little sequence that he had become fixated on. It kept the bitterness away, maybe. </p><p><i>“Laurent, she asked me!”</i> Auguste's voice had been all disbelief. No one would have given a second thought if Evan had gone to his grandparents' when his mother needed backup. Auguste really had earned this, painstakingly, through a decade of zoo trips and baseball games and inconvenient school club drop-offs. And now he was overjoyed, and Laurent's mistletoe could wait another year. </p><p>They would burn stubby scented logs in the fireplace, but the music put on for dark and peaceful evenings would never be subtly clicked over to that sad, yet now irrevocably sexy by association, Carpenters ballad that marked the most iconic instance that they had been mutually distracted from hanging ornaments on the tree. In fact, Laurent didn't know how he would respond to any song that his brother allowed to play with a mention of the word <i>desire</i>, or that they had ever had a notable fuck to in the past. </p><p>It would be nitpicking to bring up all of these small concerns. Auguste could handle the practicalities himself. It was Laurent's job to retreat, and to blend, and to be a good sibling. The lousiest lover often made the best brother.</p>
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